


Beneath the Surface

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2013 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "The Mall", Christmas fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19083313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Most people shop when they go to the mall. Blair? Not so much, not this time...





	Beneath the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "The Mall"

The underbelly of the beast, Blair thought glumly. Out there, in public, Pacific Heights Mall was all glitter and glow, potted poinsettias, piped-in carols, and carefully-demographics-targeted holiday cheer. In here, in the hidden bowels of the place? It sucked.

Bare gray concrete floors, a cheerless bank of black-and-white monitors spying on the crowd of shoppers, the cold metal folding chair Blair was sitting on — it all sucked. The only sign of the season, aside from the frazzled state of the security crew, was the bowl of candy canes sitting near one of the monitors.

At least Jim seemed to be finally wrapping up his conversation with the guy in charge of security and the woman from the mall office. Mrs. Walston had left five minutes ago, and Blair had managed not to flinch when she approached him with her shopping bag. He had no idea what was in that bag, but whatever it was packed a hell of a punch. 

Fortunately, neither Mrs. Walston nor her shopping bag had been inclined toward violence this time. "I hope your eye will be all right," she'd said with a frown. "I'm so sorry, dear. I really thought you were trying to steal my purse."

"Don't worry about it," Blair had said. "Please. I'm okay, really. You might want to think about teaching a self-defense course at the Y, though. You'd knock 'em dead."

Mrs. Walston had laughed and patted him on the head. He'd waited until she was gone before gingerly adjusting the icepack he was holding against his eye — grandmother or not, the woman had some serious muscle on her.

Jim's voice broke into Blair's thoughts. "Come on, Sandburg. We're done here." 

Thank God. He hadn’t meant for Jim to get dragged down here, but he had to admit that having one of Cascade's finest vouching for him and smoothing things over hadn't hurt. It hadn't been easy to convince Mrs. Walston — or mall security — that his stumble against her had been accidental and that the only reason he'd grabbed her — well, grabbed her purse, as it had turned out, even though he'd been aiming for her arm — had been to keep her from falling.

"Sandburg?"

Oh. Yeah. Blair looked up at Jim and winced. The expression on Jim's face was familiar: exasperation and concern and relief all mixed together, with something deeper running underneath that meant —

Well, okay, it meant that when they got in the truck, Jim's hand would find its way to Blair's thigh and stay there, warm and solid, all the way home.

It meant that when they got home, Jim's fingers would trace the damage from Mrs. Walston's shopping bag with a touch so light Blair would barely be able to feel it against the bruises, but would still be able to feel with every other nerve-ending in his body.

And it meant that later, they'd head upstairs and —

" _Sandburg._ You coming?"

Blair smiled at Jim. "Oh, yeah," he said, "I am definitely coming."


End file.
